The day is bright as then,
The lark’s loud song is in my ear,
The corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
Your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more may speak.
’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
The little Church stands near--
The Church where we were wed, Mary--
I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,--
My step might break your rest,--
Where you, my darling, lie asleep,
With your baby on your breast.
I’m very lonely now, Mary,--
The poor make no new friends;--
But, O! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There’s nothing left to care for now
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When trust in God had left my soul,
And half my strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow.
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you can’t hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break;
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
You hid it for my sake.
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore.
O! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can’t reach you more!
I’m bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary--kind and true!
But I’ll not forget you, darling,
In the land I’m going to.
They say there’s bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I’ll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.
And when amid those grand old woods
I sit and shut my eyes,
My heart will travel back again
To where my Mary lies;
I’ll think I see the little stile
Where we sat, side by side,--
And the springing corn and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.
_Lady Dufferin._
FERGUSON
CLXXV
O’BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW
(_From the Irish_)
God be with the Irish host!
Never be their battle lost!
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earned defeat.
Host of armour, red and bright,
May ye fight a valiant fight!
For the green spot of the earth,
For the land that gave you birth.
Like a wild beast in his den,
Lies the chief by hill and glen,
While the strangers, proud and savage,
Creean’s richest valleys ravage.
When old Leinster’s sons of fame,
Heads of many a warlike name,
Redden their victorious hilts,
On the Gaul, my soul exults.
When the grim Gaul, who have come,
Hither o’er the ocean foam,
From the fight victorious go,
Then my heart sinks deadly low.
Bless the blades our warriors draw,
God be with Clan Ranelagh!
But my soul is weak for fear,
Thinking of their danger here.
Have them in Thy holy keeping,
God be with them lying sleeping,
God be with them standing fighting,
Erin’s foes in battle smiting!
_Sir Samuel Ferguson._
CLXXVI
THE HILLS OF IRELAND
(_From the Irish_)
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
_Uileacán dubh O!_
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear,
_Uileacán dubh O!_
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,
_Uileacán dubh O!_
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea,
_Uileacán dubh O!_
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
_Sir Samuel Ferguson._
DAVIS
CLXXVII
MY LAND
She is a rich and rare land;
O! she’s a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land--
This native land of mine.
No men than hers are braver--
Her women’s hearts ne’er waver;
I’d freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
She’s not a dull or cold land;
No! she’s a warm and bold land;
O! she’s a true and old land--
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border--
No friend within it pine!
O, she’s a fresh and fair land;
O, she’s a true and rare land!
Yes, she’s a rare and fair land--
This native land of mine.
_Thomas Davis._
CLXXVIII
THE DEAD CHIEF
‘Did they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe O’Neill?’
‘Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.’
‘May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe!
Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.’
‘From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords;
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way,
And he died at Cloc Uachtar upon St. Leonard’s Day.’
‘Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead;
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more.
Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
Sure we never won a battle--’twas Owen won them all.
Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free;
But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ’tis slaves we’ll ever be.
O’Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true;
But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle’s Cornerstone!
Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young men and old;
Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold!
We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow--
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky--
O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye,
O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high;
But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Owen!--why did you die?’
_Thomas Davis._
DE VERE
CLXXIX
THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh!
The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;
What drove her forth but the dragon fly?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,
With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye.
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!
The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die!
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.
_Aubrey de Vere._
INGRAM
CLXXX
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He’s all a knave or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few:
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too.
All, all are gone; but still lives on
The fame of those who died;
And true men, like you men,
Remember them with pride.
Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger’s heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But though their clay be far away
Beyond th’ Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit’s still at home.
The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.
They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas! that might can vanquish right--
They fell and pass’d away;
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.
Then here’s their memory! may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty
And teach us to unite.
Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still,
Though sad as theirs your fate,
And true men, be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight!
_John Kells Ingram._
CLXXXI
NATIONAL PRESAGE
Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine!
Half-conquer’d by a greedy robber band;
Ill govern’d now with lax, now ruthless hand;
Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divine
To sanction every dark or mad design;
Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league
Through crooked paths of faction and intrigue;
And drugg’d with selfish flattery’s poison’d wine.
Yet, reading all thy mournful history,
Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime,
Turn to the future, confident that Fate,
Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee,
To be thy portion in the coming time,
They know not what--but surely something great.
_John Kells Ingram._
SIGERSON
CLXXXII
THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS
(_From the Irish_)
Lo, our land this night is lone!
Hear ye not sad Erin’s moan?
Maidens weep and true men sorrow,
Lone the Brave Race night and morrow.
Lone this night is Fola’s plain,--
Though the foemen swarm amain--
Far from Erin, generous-hearted,
Far her Flower of Sons is parted.
Great the hardship! great the grief!
Ulster wails Tirconaill’s Chief,
From Emain west to Assarue
Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh.
Children’s joy no more rejoices,--
Fetters silence Song’s sweet voices--
Change upon our chiefs, alas!
Bare the altar, banned the Mass.
Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters,
Guerdon’s none for men of letters,
Banquets none, nor merry meetings,
Hills ring not the chase’s greetings.
Songs of war make no heart stronger,
Songs of peace inspire no longer,--
In great halls, at close of days,
Sound no more our fathers’ lays.
Foemen camp in Neimid’s plains;
Who shall break our heavy chains?
What Naisi, son of Conn, shall prove
A Moses to the land we love?
She has none who now can aid her,
All have gone before the invader;
Banba’s bonds and cruel cross
Steal the very soul from us!
_George Sigerson._
CLXXXIII
LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O’NEILL
(_From the Irish_)
How great the loss is thy loss to me!
A loss to all who had speech with thee:--
On earth can so hard a heart there be
As not to weep for the death of Eoghan?
Och, ochón! ’tis I am stricken,
Unto death the isle may sicken,
Thine the soul which all did quicken;
--And thou ’neath the sod!
I stood at Cavan o’er thy tomb,
Thou spok’st no word through all thy gloom;
O want! O ruin! O bitter doom!
O great, lost heir of the house of Niall!
I care not now whom Death may borrow,
Despair sits by me, night and morrow,
My life henceforth is one long sorrow;
--And thou ’neath the sod!
O child of heroes, heroic child!
Thou’dst smite our foe in battle wild,
Thou’dst right all wrong, O just and mild!
And who lives now--since dead is Eoghan?
In place of feasts, alas! there’s crying,
In place of song, sad woe and sighing,
Alas, I live with my heart a-dying,
--And thou ’neath the sod!
My woe, was ever so cruel woe?
My heart is torn with rending throe!
I grieve that I am not lying low
In silent death by thy side, Eoghan!
Thou wast skilled all straits to ravel,
And thousands broughtst from death and cavil,
They journey safe who with thee travel,
--And thou with thy God!
_George Sigerson._
SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG
CLXXXIV
THE OLD COUNTRY
Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing
The languid wind on temple-crownèd heights,
Not heaven’s myriad stars in lustre strewing
Smooth sapphire bays in hushed Ionian nights,
Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow,
Or plumage-lighted wood, or gilded pile
Sparkling amid the imperial city’s glow,
Endears our Isle.
Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow
For ever breaking over lonely shores,
The reedy mere that is the wild-swan’s pillow,
The crag to whose torn spire the eagle soars,
The moorland where the solitary hern
Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold,
The pink sweet heather’s bloom, the waving fern,
The gorse’s gold.
And we who draw our being from thy being,
Blown by the untimely blast about the earth,
Back in love’s visions to thy bosom fleeing,
Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth;
O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes,
Tired arms across the darkness and the foam
We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies,
Belovèd home!
The nurselings of thy moorlands and thy mountains,
Thy children tempered by thy winter gales,
Swayed by the tumult of thy headlong fountains
That clothe with pasture green thy grassy vales,
True to one love in climes’ and years’ despite,
We yearn, in our last hour, upon thy breast,
When the Great Darkness wraps thee from our sight,
To sink to rest!
_George Francis Savage-Armstrong._
GRAVES
CLXXXV
THE SONGS OF ERIN
(‘Music shall outlive all the songs of the birds.’--_Old Irish_)
I’ve heard the lark’s cry thrill the sky o’er the meadows of Lusk,
And the first joyous gush of the thrush from Adare’s April Wood;
At thy lone music’s spell, Philomel, magic-stricken I’ve stood,
When, in Espan afar, star on star trembled out of the dusk.
While Dunkerron’s blue dove murmured love, ’neath her nest I
have sighed,
And by mazy Culdaff with a laugh mocked the cuckoo’s refrain;
Derrycarn’s dusky bird I have heard piping joy hard by pain,
And the swan’s last lament sobbing sent over Moyle’s mystic tide.
Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the darkening lake,
As the rose’s rapt sigh will soon die, when the zephyr is stilled;
In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds ever trilled,
But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall immortally wake.
_Alfred Perceval Graves._
CASEY
CLXXXVI
THE RISING OF THE MOON
(1798)
‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, tell me why you hurry so?’
‘Hush, _ma bouchal_, hush and listen;’ and his cheeks were all aglow:
‘I bear orders from the Captain--get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together at the risin’ o’ the moon.’
‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, where the gath’rin’ is to be?’
‘At the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me;
One word more--for signal token, whistle up the marchin’ tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin’ o’ the moon.’
Out from many a mud-wall cabin eyes were watching through that night,
Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee’s lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon.
There, beside the singing river, that dark mass of men was seen--
Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved Green.
‘Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin’ tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! ’tis the risin’ o’ the moon!’
Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was
their fate;
(O, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating hearts in manhood’s
burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon!
_John Keegan Casey._
ROLLESTON
CLXXXVII
THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS
(_From the Irish of Angus O’Gillan_)
In a quiet-water’d land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair;
And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations
Slumber there
There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
Of the Clan of Conn,
Each beneath his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.
There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
There the sons of Cairbrè sleep--
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses
Now their final hosting keep.
And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
And right many a lord of Breagh;
Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,
Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
In the red earth lies at rest;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
Many a swan-white breast.
_Thomas William Rolleston._
HINKSON
CLXXXVIII
SHAMROCK SONG
O the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!
Many a lover hath the rose
When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows;
And in many a bower is heard
Her sweet praise from bee and bird.
Through the gold hours dreameth she,
In her warm heart passionately,
Her fair face hung languid-wise:
O her breath of honey and spice!
Like a fair saint virginal
Stands your lily silver and tall;
Over all the flowers that be
Is my shamrock dear to me.
Shines the lily like the sun,
Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;
With her austere lip she sings
To her heart of heavenly things.
Gazeth through a night of June
To her sister-saint the moon;
With the stars communeth long
Of the angels and their song.
But when summer died last year
Rose and lily died with her;
Shamrock stayeth every day,
Be the winds or gold or grey.
Irish hills, grey as the dove,
Know the little plant I love;
Warm and fair it mantles them,
Stretching down from throat to hem.
And it laughs o’er many a vale,
Sheltered safe from storm and gale;
Sky and sun and stars thereof
Love the gentle plant I love.
Soft it clothes the ruined floor,
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,
And the still home of the dead
With its green is carpeted.
Roses for an hour of love,
With the joy and pain thereof;
Stand my lilies white to see
All for prayer and purity.
These are white as the harvest moon,
Roses flush like the heart of June;
But my shamrock brave and gay,
Glads the tired eyes every day.
O the red rose shineth rare,
And the lily saintly fair;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the inmost heart of me!
_Katharine Tynan Hinkson._
JOHNSON
CLXXXIX
WAYS OF WAR
A terrible and splendid trust
Heartens the host of Inisfail:
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,
A lighting glory of the Gael.
Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,
And Tara the assembling place:
But each sweet wind of Ireland bears
The trump of battle on its race.
From Dursey Isle to Donegal,
From Howth to Achill, the glad noise
Rings: and the heirs of glory fall,
Or victory crowns their fighting joys.
A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!
Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,
Some weapons on some field must gleam,
Some burning glory fire the Gael.
That field may lie beneath the sun,
Fair for the treading of an host:
That field in realms of thought be won,
And armed minds do their uttermost:
Some way, to faithful Inisfail,
Shall come the majesty and awe
Of martial truth, that must prevail,
To lay on all the eternal law.
_Lionel Johnson._
V
CANADA
SMITH
CXC
THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE
O, the East is but West, with the sun a little hotter;
And the pine becomes a palm, by the dark Egyptian water:
And the Nile’s like many a stream we know, that fills its
brimming cup,--
We’ll think it is the Ottawa, as we track the batteaux up!
_Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_
O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river;
But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver;
And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on either hand;
But strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the Southern land!
O, we’ve tracked the Rapids up, and o’er many a portage crossing;
And it’s often such we’ve seen, though so loud the waves are tossing!
Then, it’s homeward when the run is o’er! o’er stream, and
ocean deep--
To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep!
And it yet may come to pass, that the hearts and hands so ready
May be sought again to help, when some poise is off the steady!
And the Maple and the Pine be matched, with British Oak the while,
As once beneath Egyptian suns, the Canadians on the Nile!
_Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_
_William Wye Smith._
ANDERSON
CXCI
THE DEATH OF WOLFE
‘On with the charge!’ he cries, and waves his sword;--
One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;--
The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower,
While thund’ring cannons’ roar half drowns the Huron yell.
‘On with the charge!’ with shout and cheer they come;--
No laggard there upon that field of fame.
The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell,
And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame.
On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks--
Still as the grave--unmoved as granite wall;--
The foe before--the dizzy crags behind--
They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall.
Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait
That raging sea of human life now near;--
‘Fire!’ rings from right to left,--each musket rings,
As if a thunder-peal had struck the startled ear.
Again, and yet again that volley flies,--
With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;--
All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam,
And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.
And down the line swells high the British cheer,
That on a future day woke Minden’s plain,
And the loud slogan that fair Scotland’s foes
Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.
And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed
On dark Culloden moor o’er trampled dead,
Now sounds the ‘Onset’ that each clansman knows,
Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed.
And on that day no nobler stained the sod,
Than his, who for his country life laid down;
Who, for a mighty Empire battled there,
And strove from rival’s brow to wrest the laurel crown.
Twice struck,--he recks not, but still heads the charge,
But, ah! fate guides the marksman’s fatal ball:--
With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade’s aid,--
‘We win,--let not my soldiers see their Leader fall.’
Full well he feels life’s tide is ebbing fast,--
When hark! ‘They run; see how they run!’ they cry.
‘Who run?’ ‘The foe.’ His eyes flash forth one gleam,
Then murm’ring low he sighs, ‘Praise God, in peace I die.’
Far rolls the battle’s din, and leaves its dead,
As when a cyclone thro’ the forest cleaves;--
And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain,
As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.
The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground,--
The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,--
‘All’s well’ resounds from tower and battlement,
And England’s banners proudly o’er the ramparts wave.
Slowly the mighty warships sail away,
To tell their country of an empire won;
But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain,
And all that mortal is of Britain’s noblest son.
With bowèd head they lay their hero down,
And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;--
Loud salvoes sing the soldier’s lullaby,
And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured grave.
Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion’s hills,--
And rends the very sky a people’s joy;--
And even when grief broods o’er the vacant chair,
The mother’s heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.
And while broad England gleams with glorious light,
And merry peals from every belfry ring;--
One little village lies all dark and still,
No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing.
There in her lonely cot, in widow’s weeds,
A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;--
She too had given to swell proud England’s fame,
But, ah! she gave the widow’s mite--she gave her all!
_Duncan Anderson._
CURZON
CXCII
THE LOYALISTS
O ye, who with your blood and sweat
Watered the furrows of this land,--
See where upon a nation’s brow,
In honour’s front, ye proudly stand
Who for her pride abased your own,
And gladly on her altar laid
All bounty of the outer world,
All memories that your glory made.
And to her service bowed your strength,
Took labour for your shield and crest;
See where upon a nation’s brow,
Her diadem ye proudly rest!
_Sarah Anne Curzon._
RAND
CXCIII
THE WHITETHROAT
Shy bird of the silver arrows of song,
That cleave our Northern air so clear,
Thy notes prolong, prolong,
I listen, I hear--
‘I love--dear--Canada,
Canada, Canada!’
O plumes of the pointed dusky fir,
Screen of a swelling patriot heart,
The copse is all astir
And echoes thy part!...
Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes
As the noise of the day dies down;
And silence strings her lutes,
The Whitethroat to crown....
O bird of the silver arrows of song,
Shy poet of Canada dear,
Thy notes prolong, prolong,
We listen, we hear--
‘I--love--dear--Canada,
Canada, Canada!’
_Theodore Harding Rand._
CHRISTIE
CXCIV
WELCOME HOME
(_July 23, 1885_)